


Gimme your hands cos you're wonderful

by brydski



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:03:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brydski/pseuds/brydski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is going out for a couple of hours every monday and thursday night and won't say where he's going. Jones gets pissed off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gimme your hands cos you're wonderful

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, ever, but the idea got stuck in my head today and the only way to get it out was to write it, so please enjoy, try to overlook my inept writing abilities, and if I have made any drastic errors please do let me know so I can fix them x

 

Dan Ashcroft walked briskly down the street, pulling his tweed jacket closer around him as the evening autumn air nipped bitterly at his ears and neck. The yellow glow from the street lamps flickered as he made his way towards his destination, trying to supress the feelings of guilt and deceit that overwhelmed him with reassurances in an attempt to justify his lies and behaviour, knowing that it would all be worth it in the end.

“You’re a fucking git, Ashcroft.” Dan muttered to himself, briefly noticing the cool air take his words and coil them in a vapour around his mouth before disappearing almost as soon as they had appeared. He knew Jones was pissed off. He knew Jones was confused at Dan’s regular and unexplained departures from the House of Jones every Monday and Thursday evening. He also knew that if Jones knew where he had been going twice a week for the past month it would ruin everything he was working for.

Dan pulled a crumpled but not quite broken cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it clumsily as he walked. Inhaling deeply and taking as many toxins as he could into his lungs, he hoped that they would attach themselves to some of the guilt that weighed him down and draw it out of his body with each exhalation.

He thought back to the conversation – no, argument - with Jones that he had just cut off abruptly as he strode out the door of their flat.

 

Jones had been calm at first, a genuine look of concern distorting his features in a way that made Dan’s insides twist as he tried to ask Dan about where he had been going. “If you’re in some kind of trouble Dan I can help, yeah? I know people, and I may be a bit dim but I’m not as thick as you and everyone else think I am – I know how to handle a rough situation, yeah? I can be a right little cockney bitch if I need to! Just tell me, Dan, and I can help. Please Dan, if you’re in trouble let me help?”

Dan had replied tentatively, hoping that he could diffuse the situation with more lies. “I’m not in any trouble Jones, we’ve been over this. It’s just something I’m working on for SugaRape that’s gonna take me a few weeks to research. I appreciate your concern Jones, but really, it’s fine.”

“Fuck, Dan, if it’s something for that shit-rag then why can’t you fuckin’ tell me, yeah? You told me about wanking off that bloke in the bloody pub loos, for fuck’s sake, what could be worse than that?” Jones had stopped looking concerned and instead looked agitated and a little betrayed, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I just can’t Jones, it’s a secret alright? Jonatton would have my fucking balls in a vice if I spill this before it goes to print. You just have to drop it Jones, please. I have to go, I’m gonna be late.” More lies.

Jones had then become defensive and full-on pissed off, gesticulating wildly in his frustration which made the excessive number bangles and trinkets hanging off of him jingle in a way that Dan would have found comical if it weren’t for the dark glaze that had marred Jones’ usually ethereal eyes - “Fuck you, Dan. I thought we were mates, yeah? You don’t trust me? Think I’m gonna blab your special secret little story to every fucking person that walks through the door at Stanley Knives? Or maybe you think I’ll announce it over the mic to a heaving, sweaty crowd of Idiots at a gig? I thought you were different, yeah? Everyone else treats me like a kid but once I actually thought you respected me, _liked_ me, even. Guess not, yeah? I _must_ be a fucking kid if I get shit like this so wrong. Fuck off Dan, go do your secret spy research shit and – “

Jones watched the door close abruptly behind Dan as he stormed out. “ _Fuck_!” he shouted at nobody in particular as he strode over to the nearest wall and hit it hard with both fists. He sighed and rubbed his knuckles cautiously, took his usual spot behind the organised chaos of music equipment and dj gear and returned his headphones to their rightful place over his ears. He cast his eyes down to the numerous faders, buttons, and dials that he had long since committed to muscle memory, and tried to mix himself out of his mood.

Not even five minutes had passed before Jones pulled his headphones off from his ears in frustration – nothing sounded right, there was something missing from the mix these days, a sort of hollowness that no amount of coffee, cocaine, or new samples could fix it. He sulked his way over to Dan’s record player on the other side of the room and carefully lifted the needle onto the groove of whichever record Dan had been listening to last, some bluesy shit that Jones didn’t recognise but he didn’t care. It was noise and it wasn’t his. Listening to his own mixes was winding him up more than calming him down at the moment. He fished out a bottle of pills from the back of the couch and took two, with a chaser of vodka from the bottle he kept under the couch, before lying back and connecting the dots of the ceiling tiles in his mind, trying to make dot-to-dot animals and trying to make sense of the disjointed feeling he had coursing through his veins. It wasn’t too long before the fact that he had not slept for four days caught up with him and he drifted deeper into his imagination, and finally, in to sleep.

 

The atmosphere in the House of Jones in the following weeks was nothing short of inhospitable. So much so that Claire had buggered off completely, preferring to work on her latest documentary project late into the night at Trashbat HQ and crash on the sofa there rather than deal with the conflict between her brother and their flatmate. She had tried to understand the situation after a week of Dan skulking around the flat looking morose and Jones’ constant noise seeming to have a much blacker edge to it than usual. When she’d asked Dan what the fuck was going on with him and Jones he had responded with a sigh and a half-hearted “Fuck off, Claire. I’m dealing with it” as he glanced over at Jones, who was pushing his speakers to their limit with grinding, pounding, discordant sounds that made no sense to anyone but him. When she had asked Jones the same question, he had looked accusingly at Dan before responding tersely with “Ask your knob-end of a brother.” She left it at that.

 

Neither man had so much as looked each other in the eye for almost 3 weeks since their argument. The only exchange of words had been the occasional attempts from Dan to placate the situation by offering Jones a coffee or some pinky wafers, and the stubborn, monosyllabic responses that he received from Jones in return.

Dan hated it, every minute of it. When he was at his desk at SugaRape his thoughts flitted between the intense desire to come clean to Jones and tell him everything so they could go back to how they were, and the steely determination to follow through with his “research”. The latter won out every time, even if it meant keeping Jones in the dark for just a couple more weeks and dealing with the fact that the one person that he felt he had something in common with in this shitty world, the one person that would willingly spend time with, wanted nothing to do with him because he was being a deceptive, sneaky, lying prick. When he was at home he felt uncomfortable just being in the same room as Jones. He could feel the piercing glare of those impossibly big and impossibly blue eyes on his back, only for them to drop back down to the mixing console as soon as Dan turned to look back. He would never admit it, but he even missed having Claire around, if only to have someone else there to rant to about the latest idiotic fucking trend that had taken over the SugaRape office that week or to whine about whatever it was that Jonatton Yeah? deemed worthy of a feature for the next issue. It’ll all be over soon, he reassured himself. It’ll be done, Jones will forgive me once he understands, and things will go back to how they were. Well, not exactly how they were, Dan hoped. Some change is good, after all.

 

Jones hated it, every minute of it. He couldn’t concentrate at Stanley Knives, even the regulars had noticed a change in his demeanour and his mixes. Every track had an underlying harshness to it, and his usually serene expressions of concentration had been replaced by a perpetual scowl, accented by a gleam of melancholy that could be seen only when he raised his head from the console to look up at each and every person that walked through the door, secretly wishing it would be Dan. He was still pissed off at him, of course. Dan was being a right fuckin’ twat. He just didn’t understand where he had fucked it all up? He’d been real good to Dan, giving him a place to live when he was desperate, listening when he bitched on and on about The Idiots and that ball-bag of a human being Jonatton Yeah?, and looking after him after he went and chucked himself out of that fucking window. They used to get along surprisingly well considering the mismatched pair that they were. He though him and Dan had a good thing going, ya know? Dan was a bloody great stubborn Northern grump of a man, but Jones liked him. He should have been well repulsed by Dan's straggly unkempt mop of hair and his ill-fitting shambles of a wardrobe, but for some reason Jones found himself drawn to the man. He felt at ease in his company – something that Jones could not recall ever feeling about any other person before. So why all of a sudden was there a fucking great brick wall between them? Jones knew Dan had something going on, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just research for SugaRape, but he couldn’t think what else could be so bad that he couldn’t talk to Jones about it? Fuck him, though, Jones thought. Let him put up with the cold shoulder and not being talked to for a bit longer, see how he fucking likes it.

 

It had been eight weeks since Dan had started leaving the House of Jones every Monday and Thursday, at six pm on the dot, returning at nine pm with no explanation as to his whereabouts. Four weeks had passed since Jones had finally gotten sick of the secrecy and confronted Dan about it, resulting in the argument that would lead to the following three weeks and six days of stubborn avoidance and silence from both parties. It was all going to change tonight though, thought Dan. Eight weeks of secrecy all building up to now, he thought as he walked through the swinging double doors of the building that he had been walking to twice a week for the past eight weeks.

The first time he had been nervous. He had been more agitated than usual, if that’s even possible, and as a result he didn’t make a great first impression. Turns out that insulting the people that are trying to help you won’t get you anywhere towards your goals, so the second time round he had tried to be more open to the help that was being offered to him, and he tried his very hardest not to get shitty at everyone, or snap and break something he knew he couldn’t afford to replace. By the fourth time he was comfortable in this new environment with these new people, and actually began to enjoy himself a little bit as he started to get the results he was looking for, knowing that everything he was doing would pay off in a matter of weeks. Tonight was the sixteenth and final time, and by now Dan was confident in what he was doing. A little cocky, even, as he showed off to the others around him who pretended to look impressed but actually were a little perplexed by it all. Dan didn’t mind the confused looks on their faces, in fact it only served to reinforce the fact that he was ready. He left at eight thirty pm and began to make his way home to the House of Jones with what felt like a bundle of newts crawling around in his stomach.

 

Jones had been home all day working on a new set for a gig he had just landed at an exclusive underground club in Shoreditch. One of the club managers had come into Stanley Knives earlier in the week and liked Jones’ new dark, edgy sound and offered him the gig on the spot! Jones was beyond stoked to land a new gig and immediately started preparing a set based on his “new sound” but he had been struggling to concentrate all day. This was usual for these past couple of months, but today seemed worse for some reason. Dan had seemed weird when he left the flat for his bi-weekly secret disappearing act, and it put Jones on edge. His leg jiggled incessantly as he sat on the settee with the remnants of two lines of coke on the glass-topped coffee table in front of him and a triple-strength coffee (his third of the hour) clasped in his hands. He accidentally spilled some on himself as he absent-mindedly tried to rest the mug on the knee of the twitching leg that seemed to have developed a mind of its own. “Fuuuuck” he hissed under his breath as the hot liquid seeped through the knee of his ragged black skinny jeans. Setting the mug down on a stack of old NME magazines he braved the war-zone of a kitchen in search of a tea towel to mop himself up.

 

Dan trod lightly on the stairs, pausing outside the door of the flat to listen for the ever-present rhythmical thumping that signaled Jones was at home doing what he always was at this time of the night (he had once enthusiastically insisted to Dan and Claire that all the best artists create their greatest masterpieces in the dead of the night, much to Claire’s utter disdain). Instead there was silence. Dan’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall if Jones had a gig tonight (although with the complete lack of communication between them over the last two months, it was likely he wouldn’t have known either way). He fumbled in the pockets of his too-big trousers for his house key and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves before sliding the key into the lock and turning the handle.

Jones had been sitting still (well, almost still) for about fifteen minutes now. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so still for so long without fidgeting or leaping up every five minutes to try out a genius new sample in one of his mixes– he was sure he even fidgeted constantly in his sleep! He had repeated the conversation he planned to have with Dan over and over in his head at least a dozen times, determined to get his point across without getting wound up and turning it into another argument. If he could use the right words then Dan would have to take him seriously and listen properly. Jones had never been good with words though, words were Dan’s thing. Jones preferred to communicate with sound, pouring his head and heart into his mixes with the same passion and precision that a great novelist would pen his memoirs. Layering sound like a master painter layers colour and texture on a canvas. Dan didn’t “get” his mixes though, Jones could see it in his eyes even as he earnestly tried to make the right sounds and gestures of appreciation at the right moments of each new track that Jones proudly played to him. No, tonight Jones would use Dan’s language. He would use words in the best way that he could to try and coax Dan into trusting him, into telling him honestly what was going on. Maybe if they could talk properly they could fix this fuck-up of a situation and go back to normal?

“What the fuck is normal anyway?” whispered Jones to himself as he fought with his emotions to stay calm and repeat the words in his head that he wanted to get across to Dan. His stomach crawled with what felt like a thousand snakes as he imagined being able to look into Dan’s deep brown eyes again without the older man flinching and looking away. He imagined going back to the easy conversations that they used to be able to slip in to with zero effort. He remembered Dan’s face breaking into that rarely-seen wolfish grin, all canines and crinkly eyes, as Jones drunkenly imitated Nathan Fucking Barley and those fucking twats from SugaRape. He remembered the mornings after those particularly big nights where he would wake up on the couch with a blanket tucked around him and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him. He remembered Dan holding a cold flannel to his clammy forehead as he shivered and shook his way through yet another bad come-down. “This had better fucking work” Jones muttered to himself with a sigh as he glanced at the clock.

 

Dan pulled his key out of the door and stepped into the flat to be immediately greeted with the sight of Jones sitting on the settee in silence. Silence? Shit, Dan thought as he made eye contact with the smaller man and saw apprehension mixed with strong resolve swimming behind the blue. Jones stood quickly, managing to maintain eye contact with Dan despite the nerves that shook his body to the core.

“Dan, I need – “ Jones cut himself off as Dan turned quickly and made his way to stand behind Jones’ mixing console.

“Dan, what the – “ Jones attempted again, but again stopping himself as he watched Dan fish around in his jacket pockets before pulling out a CD and placing it in to the CD tray of Jones’ laptop.

Jones had given up on trying to start his serious conversation with Dan at this point, instead he stood transfixed by Dan’s actions, watching in mystified silence from the middle of the living room as Dan seemed to take a moment to run his eyes over Jones’ dj set-up, as if to get his bearings. Dan glanced up at Jones for a second, hesitation and doubt flickering across his face. Jones took this as his final opportunity so began once again to speak, although by this point his voice came out as a soft whisper – “Dan, I don’t understand? What’s goi-“

For a third time Jones was cut off but this time by Dan, not by himself. “Jones, close your eyes.”

With a bewildered look softening his previously resolute and unwavering features, Jones did as he was told, too captivated by what was happening to argue.

Dan looked up at Jones again, and drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the smaller man standing awkwardly in the middle of the lounge. Jones was still wearing his favourite raggedy black skinnies, although now they sported a fresh dark coffee stain across the right knee. He was wearing one of his custom-made t-shirts with patches of odd fabric stitched on with what seemed to Dan to be no logical pattern or symmetry, intertwined with spiraling stitches of red and gold thread to match the streaks through his hair, and the occasional sequin for good measure. Jones had only recently decided that sleeves were an inconvenience and so he had cut those off, meaning Dan could see the all of the muscles in Jones’ arms moving steadily as his hands fidgeted at his sides. He could see the tendons of Jones' bare feet flexing as he shuffled a little on the spot, unsure of what was coming.

 

Only seconds had passed but it seemed to Dan as if he had lost himself forever just looking at Jones. He blinked forcefully a couple of times and took a deep breath to pull himself back into focus. He moved his right hand to Jones’ laptop and clicked the sequence of buttons and icons that would begin to play the track that was recorded on the CD that he had inserted only moments earlier. Once the timer began to tick over, indicating that the track had begun to play, Dan moved his left hand to the master fader of the mixing console and slowly pushed it up until he could hear a faint buzz through the speakers, then immediately returned his gaze to Jones and watched for every small reaction he could gauge as sound began to fill the room.

Jones’ heart was beating so hard and so fast he was sure that if he opened his eyes he would be able to see his chest thumping. A million and one thoughts, questions, and feelings raced through his head as he stood in the middle of the room, toes pointing inwards and arms hanging limply at his sides. He could feel his fingers tapping and twitching in the way they did when he was nervous but he made no attempt to still them. He could hear Dan clicking buttons on his laptop and a small part of him wanted to open his eyes to check what he was doing, to make sure he wasn’t messing with any important settings on his console, but he quickly repressed that thought and concentrated on stilling his mind and slowing his breathing.

 

At first there was just the buzz of electricity as it coursed through wires, through the laptop, through the console, and through the speakers. After about ten seconds Jones could hear the distinct soft crackling sound of a needle lazily circling a record at the end of a track, punctuated by the occasional pop as it hops over a speck of dust or a scratch in the vinyl. Jones immediately felt a wash of serenity through his entire body – this was one of his favourite sounds, one that never failed to calm him down and make him feel safe. Simultaneously he felt a rush of something else – this wasn’t one of his mixes, he was sure of it. He tried again to still his mind as he heard another layer of sound introduced to the mix – this time another, more resonant pop that took him longer to place, but as this new sound repeated rhythmically over the base layer of record static he felt the corners of his mouth twitch up in recognition. It was the sound that the plastic capsule from inside a Kinder Surprise chocolate egg makes when you squeeze it and it pops open, revealing the genius hidden treasure inside. With that realisation his mouth began to water in desire for his most favourite sweet sugary chocolaty treat.

Dan, watching anxiously from behind the console, felt a surge of pride as he watched Jones react to the sounds that he had so painstakingly pieced together. He could see that Jones’ hands had stilled and the faint traces of a smile were playing around the corners of his mouth. Dan’s concentration turned momentarily back to the console to adjust the master bass output level in anticipation for the next sample that he knew was coming up in the track, and once again his gaze returned straight away to Jones, elated at being able to look so intently at the smaller man without guilt drawing his eyes down to his feet for the first time in what felt like forever.

Jones felt the next layer of sound before he heard it, a faint vibration under his feet that slowly gained intensity as the sound emanated from the speakers softly at first, but increased in volume as if the source of the sound was drawing nearer. He held back a grin as he realised it was the sound of the Central Line train that rumbled through Shoreditch High Street Rail station all day, every day, like clockwork. Jones loved most sounds, really, but he particularly loved sounds that you could feel, something tangible that you could almost reach out and touch, which is why Jones loved listening to the trains. He loved the way the sound panned from left to right, right to left, as it passed. He loved the way it grew louder and louder until in an instant it was gone with a rush of air and a resonant rumble underfoot. Jones felt more at ease now than he had done in months. Fully giving himself over to the sounds that washed around him, he lowered himself to the floor, eyes still closed, and sat with legs crossed lazily, arms in his lap, and a look of pure content on his face that made Dan’s stomach flip-flop. He watched closely as Jones’ expression changed subtly in recognition of each new sound as it appeared.

As layer upon layer of noise and music was added to the track, Jones’ heart swelled with emotion. Every new sound represented something he loved, or something that reminded him of Dan. There was the rustling of the newspaper as it is unfolded to reveal a hot parcel of fish and chips, accented with snippets of the clanging of utensils and baskets and the bubbling of hot oil in the deep fryers from his favourite chip shop down the road (Jones always said it was the closest he’d ever get to hearing a live symphony, which never failed to draw a chuckle from Dan). There was the hissing sound of their ancient relic of a coffee maker, the sound of a babbling crowd lined up outside to get in to a club on a Friday night, there was an underlying sound of Dan’s typewriter, clacking away through the night as he struggled to finish yet another page of drivel for SugaRape with only hours to go before his deadline. Each new sound was introduced in a way that it stood out from the rest of the noise, and yet at the same time each melded seamlessly into the mix.

About three minutes in to the track Jones couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes as six words from his favourite Bowie song punched through the rest of the sounds, resonating strongly and seeming to reach out and pull his heart from his chest. Just six lyrics - “Oh no love, you’re not alone!” - and he couldn’t help but lift his head and look up at Dan though blurry eyes. Jones swiped at his tears with the back of his hand and stood up slowly as the lyrics continued – “I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain. You’re not alone.”

Dan held his breath as Jones began to stand, and suddenly his confidence and pride in his mix that he had worked on for eight weeks disappeared as doubt began to creep in. Why was Jones crying? Jones never cries. Ever. He doesn’t like it? Shit, have I completely missed the mark with this? He looked like he was enjoying it before…Fuck. Ashcroft, you fucking twat. Dan dropped his head, now certain that he had somehow fucked this all up and that Jones was getting up to leave. Although he willed it with all his might, he couldn’t help the tears that prickled behind his eyes and threatened to spill onto his cheeks.

Bowie continued to wail over the mix of all of Jones’ favourite sounds, and from the way that one-by-one the layers of sound seemed to be fading out of the mix the track was coming to an end. Jones hoped, he _really_ hoped, that Dan had included the final lines of the Bowie song in his mix as he crossed the room towards him, his heart pounding harder than any bass line he has ever mixed. As Bowie sang “Gimme your hands cause you’re wonderful”, Jones now stood in front of Dan and tentatively reached out and took both of his much larger hands in his own. The noise faded out until all that remained was the initial crackling of the needle on vinyl that the track had started with. Dan lifted his head slightly and looked through his unruly mop of hair at Jones now standing in front of him, not quite ready to let himself believe that Jones had not stood up to walk out on him.

“Dan?” Jones asked in a barely audible whisper, struggling to find words in the emotional jumble that filled his head, “Did you-? How did-? What _was_ that?”

 

“Community college, night classes, Mondays and Thursdays six thirty til eight thirty. Eight week course, Introduction to DJing” Dan murmured back sheepishly.

 

Jones felt a swell of guilt at the way he had acted towards Dan, he’d thrown a right paddy and acted like a petulant child for weeks now.

 

Dan tried to continue to explain himself, still unsure of what exactly was happening and why Jones was still in the house and not already three blocks down the road by now, “Couldn’t tell you, didn’t wanna ruin it. I’m sorry, Jones, I just wanted to show you that -”

 

“Look at me, Dan” Jones whispered, clasping Dan’s hands tighter in his own as Dan raised his head to look at Jones properly.

 

“I love you, too. Can I 'ave a coupla quid for a Kinder egg?”

 


End file.
